Chosen for the Marriage Bed

Richard’s words of welcome had dissolved in the deluge. ‘I surprised her? You’re travelling from Llanwardine with a cat in your lap?’

‘I had to bring her. There was no other way.’

For a long moment their gazes held, his astonished, hers defensive. Then Elizabeth blinked the rain from her lashes and the contact was broken.

‘Never mind,’ Richard forestalled any further conversation as thunder rolled overhead. ‘Let’s all get in out of this infernal weather. Including that animal. If you could prevent her from mauling me further, I would help you down.’

Grasping Elizabeth de Lacy firmly—and the struggling cat—he lifted and deposited her on her feet, aware of her lightness, relieved when the girl thrust the cat into the arms of her serving woman. So Richard took her arm to lead her into the Hall where there would be a small reception awaiting them. He was conscious of her drawing back, a definite reluctance, but why? She had seemed neither shy nor lacking in confidence in that first brief connection. Her eyes had met and held his with not a little self-worth, so why hang back now? This was not the reaction of a forthright, headstrong young woman, as Elizabeth de Lacy had been painted. Richard Malinder frowned. She would be his wife and Lady of Ledenshall so he would not allow her to succumb to foolish reticence, but pulled her forwards into the light and warmth. Servants removed and carried off sodden cloaks. A fire was burning towards which all gravitated. Wine was brought.

For better or worse, his bride had come home.

But first things first. Richard sought out Elizabeth’s elder brother in the throng. It was not difficult. The de Lacy stature and colouring was clearly marked on both of Sir John’s nephews. Richard drew Lewis, a rangy young man in his early twenties with a not-quite-hostile expression on his face, aside. Now was the time to build some bridges between the two families.

‘I owe you my thanks for escorting your sister here.’ Richard clasped the hand of Lewis de Lacy, forcing a courteous exchange.

‘I was given no choice, my lord. Sir John ordered it.’

‘But you are safely here. A bad day for such a lengthy journey.’ Both were uncomfortably aware of the political divide between Malinder and de Lacy, but for the occasion it was pushed aside by tacit and common consent. ‘Some refreshment, I think.’ Richard beckoned one of the maids, who promptly handed a tankard to the young man.

Lewis accepted and drank, dry humour surfacing under the influence of the warmth and ale. ‘My sister will be relieved to have arrived. Postponing the journey was not something we discussed. I doubt I could have persuaded her to remain at Llanwardine another night. Perhaps I should introduce you formally,’ he suggested.

‘I have had a painful meeting already!’ Richard responded to the humour, pleased to see the boy relax, and flexed his hand where the scratch stung. ‘I’ll live. Not sure about the cat though.’

‘Ha! Vicious and unpredictable—but much loved by Mistress Bringsty and so untouchable.’

‘Do you say?’ Richard smiled.

‘I would not risk it! But Elizabeth is more amenable than the cat,’ Lewis ventured, before adding with a quick and engaging grin, ‘or most of the time. But I would watch Mistress Bringsty, if I were you.’

Richard’s brows snapped into a dark bar as he followed the direction of Lewis’s glance across the room towards the woman who stood at Elizabeth de Lacy’s shoulder in a position of support and protection. Then his mouth curved and his eyes warmed in reply. ‘The voice of experience. I’m grateful for the warning.’ He began to move in the direction of the two women, until a hand grasped his sleeve.

‘One thing I must say. And I dare say you won’t like it, Malinder.’ Richard turned, seeing that Lewis was serious again, tense as if needing to draw on inner depths, but determined none the less. ‘Elizabeth will deny it, but her life has not been an easy one. Our father, Philip de Lacy, had no affection for any of us, whilst Sir John sees her as a means to an end. It was despicable to send her to Llanwardine. Elizabeth deserves some contentment, some measure of happiness. She’s had precious little in her life so far.’ His bright level gaze held Richard’s, suddenly older than his years. ‘If you hurt her—I’ll hunt you down, Malinder or no.’

Richard looked at the impassioned features, unconcerned with the threat, astounding in itself, more taken with the fierce loyalty of the young man and the glimpse that had been unexpectedly opened into Elizabeth de Lacy’s previous existence. He found that he liked Lewis de Lacy no worse for that fierce loyalty.

‘The lady will receive all consideration at my hands. I can free her from de Lacy control, if that’s what you mean. I hope she can be happy and content here.’ He kept the tone light as he felt the heat of the fire in Lewis’s regard.

Then Lewis nodded. ‘That’s what I want for her. So come and meet her. Elizabeth…’ Lewis walked to her, touched her arm. She turned slowly to face the two men. And so Richard Malinder gained his first true impression of his bride.

His inner and very candid reaction to her appalled him.

A drowned rat would have presented a more appealing picture. Despite the heavy cloak, she was soaked to the skin with unflattering consequences. The dark gown, not a nun’s habit, but no more attractive with its sodden folds and mired hem, clung to her figure, clammy and revealing. She was tall—her eyes almost on a level with his—but too thin, too angular. He noted her wrists as she held a mug of steaming ale, the bones pressing against translucent skin, the sharp collarbones where the neckline of her gown revealed them. The drenched wimple clung to her head and framed a face notable for its hollow cheeks and thin, straight nose. Her hair was completely covered by the unflattering cloth. Her skin was sallow, colourless, the faintest smudge of mud on one cheek where she had wiped away the rain. She looked stretched and strained from lack of sleep. Her mouth might be full with a generous lower lip, probably enhanced by a smile if she was ever moved to give one, but instead it was taut and uncurving. Dark unfathomable eyes watched him warily, the brows, beautifully arched, raised a little. She awaited his response with what? A certain confidence? Or a deep disquiet, well concealed? Whatever feelings she hid, she was not a prepossessing presence.

As he approached, and as Elizabeth de Lacy turned to acknowledge him for the first time, Richard saw her eyes widen, a flash of light in their depths. Her fingers tightened on her cup, high colour slashing across her sharp cheekbones, her colourless lips parted as if she would express some immediate thought. Then she pressed them together, at the same time veiling her thoughts with a down-sweep of lashes.

Her reaction to him—was it shock? Fear? What was she thinking?

But then that question was obliterated by a slight movement to one side of Elizabeth. Richard’s attention was caught. Anne Malinder had approached to stand quietly there, as if to give Elizabeth some companionable support on this tense occasion. Gowned in rich blue damask, a profusion of braided red-gold hair covered with a transparent veil and delicately tinted cheeks, she was rounded and feminine and astonishingly pretty. A fleeting image again leapt unbidden into his mind, of Gwladys, who had also enjoyed wearing blue. It provided an unfortunate and terrible comparison with Richard’s new bride.

His heart sank.

Richard, his manners impeccable, deliberately turned his eyes from Anne and back to Elizabeth de Lacy, careful to show none of his inner turmoil. Taking her hand, long fingered and cold, he found himself wondering whether there was any warm blood to be found anywhere in her body.

‘Welcome to Ledenshall, Elizabeth de Lacy.’

He raised her hand to his lips in a brief formal salute. Her fingers were as icy against his mouth as he had suspected, the skin roughened, the knuckles ugly and swollen.

Recovered from whatever had disturbed her, Elizabeth inclined her head, the tiniest of movements. ‘Thank you, my lord Malinder. I am honoured by your desire to wed me.’ Her eyes remained direct beneath his searching gaze. ‘I am most pleased to be here.’ Her voice surprised him a little. Low and soft, it had a husky depth that was most appealing. His heart sank even further. It was the most attractive part about her as far as he could tell.

Elizabeth allowed herself time to admire the room that would be her own. Timber-ceilinged, plaster-walled, painted in floral patterns now faded into delicate soft colours with the years, a patterned tiled floor—it all wrapped her round in an aura of wealth and comfort. A fire burned in the stone fireplace and beeswax candles had been lit in tall candlesticks to push back the shadows. The bed—oh, glory!—had patterned silk curtains and tester, the canopy attached by tasselled cords to the ceiling beams. After the deprivations of Llanwardine, she could imagine the sheer luxury of lying there, beneath the silk cover where she could see the luxury of a feather mattress and cool linen sheets. An oak chest, a box chair, a stand with pewter ware. Elizabeth took it all in with a silent sigh of delight. The Malinder household had taken pains to make her feel welcomed. The bands of tension around Elizabeth’s heart loosened a little; her fingers, which had been clenched into fists at her sides, slowly opened.

Before she could express her thanks, her attention was truly caught because there before the fire stood a bound wooden tub. And buckets of steaming water brought in by servants. Elizabeth looked at it longingly, with unspeakable gratitude, as she tugged at her gown where it clung unpleasantly to her hips. Her appearance on her arrival could not have been worse. She hated to think what she looked like. She knew what she looked like. What a shock it must have been for Richard Malinder to see his betrothed for the first time, as if she had just been dragged from a river. At least she could only improve. A cynical twist touched the corner of her lips, quickly hidden as she recalled her first unfortunate reaction.

Richard Malinder was definitely the man of the scrying bowl. The same astonishingly attractive features, the same fall of black hair. And when those grey eyes had looked at her she had felt her bones melt, and was almost compelled by some inner force to reach out a hand to touch him. Not that she had, but surely he was everything a woman could want in her husband if physical beauty mattered.

How tragic that she could not match him with a beauty of her own.

Yet she must remember. Elizabeth, unaware, frowned at her new surroundings. He was a Lancastrian, and therefore her enemy. It would be unwise to be seduced by the magnificence of a man’s face. And what was it that Jane had said in warning? Two dark men, one friend, one enemy.

If Richard Malinder was to prove to be her enemy, then she must be on her guard.

She had seen the tightening of his muscles when he approached her, until good manners had forced him to play the gallant. It was the moment she had been dreading. She had to summon all her inner resources to present a blank and unresponsive exterior, anything but reveal the fear in her heart. And he was so cold and formal—he must dislike the match more than she thought. A pity she had nothing to recommend her to change his mind. Not compared with the decorative little cousin who was even now watching her, head tilted, with a slyly amused light in her eyes.

Elizabeth’s meagre belongings had already been brought in. Never had a bride from so powerful a family been so poorly prepared. Jane Bringsty deposited the cat, which took up a position on a corded box and watched the proceedings with half-veiled hostile eyes. Then as warmth pervaded, it stretched and began to wash its damp fur with intense concentration. If only it could be as easy for her to settle into these new surroundings.

Jane Bringsty, aided by a suspiciously willing Anne, began to open the packages on the bed, intent on discovering a suitable gown. An impossibility, Elizabeth acknowledged, knowing the contents. Meanwhile with cold stiff fingers she unpinned and removed the heavy wimple. As she held the coarse cloth in her hands, Elizabeth sensed and heard the reaction. And knew why. She herself had grown used to it—almost.

‘Oh.’ Anne’s eyes danced. ‘How shocking!’

‘The nuns,’ Elizabeth found herself explaining, ‘believe that long hair encourages vanity and distracts a woman from her vocation and the true meaning of life. At least they did not shave my head. It could be worse.’

‘Not much worse!’ Anne answered with devastating frankness.

True enough, even though the comment was pure malice. The shortest of dark hair covered her head. Soft and short, raggedly cut, it hugged her skull, hardly a covering at all.

Knowing that she had no control over the next few minutes, Elizabeth tensed against what must follow, grateful that the candles in the room were few, the light dimly shadowed. Her gown was removed and then her chemise until she stood, clammy and damp in shivering flesh beside the steaming tub. A little draught touched the skin of her neck and shoulder, as of a door opening, and with it a sudden presentiment. Elizabeth lifted her head, quickly glancing over her shoulder, to see that the door was indeed partially opened. There, unmoving on the thresh-old, was a dark figure. He must have knocked and, receiving no answer, opened it to ask after her needs. This was far worse than any of her imaginings. Richard Malinder, shockingly aware of the most intimate of her secrets.

Elizabeth stood immobile, as unmoving as he, her eyes wide and lips parted in dread, appalled at what she knew he must see. His face might be expressionless, but she could imagine the thoughts clamouring in his mind. To her horror his gaze moved from hers to slide over her shoulders, her back, down to buttocks and thighs. Then back to hold hers again. Light, insubstantial his appraisal might be, yet she felt that his keen eyes had taken possession of every inch of her skin—and presumably found her undesirable. How mortifying! Elizabeth shivered in awareness at the chill in that direct judgement, the only blessing that the flickering of the candles might mask the worst of the scars.

And that was not the worst of it. By the Virgin! Would he come in? Would he find a need to comment, to draw even more attention to her with its ensuing degradation? And if he did, would she be forced to abandon what dignity she had left to snatch up her robe to cover herself and her shame? Elizabeth prayed he had enough sensitivity to retreat and not inflict any more humiliation on her. Was it not bad enough that his beautiful cousin should see her punishment revealed?

Even as the thought crossed her mind, as if hearing her silent plea, as if reading the dismay on her face, Richard Malinder bowed, and withdrew before the others in the room knew of his presence, closing the door softly. Leaving Elizabeth to claw back her control. The whole had only lasted a matter of seconds, yet it had seemed to Elizabeth a lifetime of raw exposure, to be scrutinised and judged.

Meanwhile, Anne Malinder, unaware, looked at Elizabeth with emerald-eyed interest.

‘What did they do to you?’

In her mind, Elizabeth saw herself as Anne would see her. As Richard Malinder must have seen her. She carried no extra flesh. Her ribs could be detected beneath her skin, as could the press of bones at hip and shoulder. Her breasts were small and undeveloped. Almost a child’s body in its slightness, despite her age and obvious womanhood. She could almost hear the condemnation. If Richard wanted a wife for childbearing, he had not chosen well. Overcome with shame, as if her deficiencies were all her own fault, Elizabeth turned her back on her unwelcome audience to pick up a bedgown and so hide herself from this too public view and inspection. An action that allowed the candlelight to glimmer along silver welts. Healed but visible. As she realised what her action had revealed to Anne Malinder, Elizabeth stiffened again, but it was too late.